Rot, Glorious Rot
by Mr. Dot
Summary: When a God wants some adventure, the results are always impredictable. It's so that Grandfather Nurgle decides to send a smaller version of himself roaming around the universe. Named Gudras, what this small-enormous being will meet during his journey?
1. Chapter 1

War.

Was is the great constant of this bitter, embattled world.

Over the stubbonly defended Empire, with its disciplined armies and grim warriors, over the harsh lands of great Kislev and its fierce defenders, over frozen Norsca and its tribes and monsters and mutations. War is always present, only becoming more and more savage, unthinking, immortal, as one keeps on going north. Beyond the Sea of Claws, beyond the Chaos Wastes, where innumerable, nameless monstrosities eternally dwell, beyond the great, shattered portal that stands at the very edge of the world.

There, beyond the very limit of the material world, stands the Realm of Chaos. More than a simple costant, here war is woven in the own fabric of reality. Battling for the sake of battle, battling for their masters' desires, battling for the slightest insult, unnumerable hordes of Daemons fight in this eternally moving realm, titanic battles being wrought and ended in the time during the time which a mortal's heart beat once.

The Great Four Chaos Gods battle here, forever embroiled in a war for dominance over all. Khorne, Nurgle, Tzeentch and Slaneesh, the four great entities strive forever, one against the others.

From the red, barren wastelands of mighty Khorne's domain, to the impossible crystal mazes of the Land of the Sorcerer, to the putrid woods of Nurgle, to the beautiful palaces of the Dark Prince, conflict reigns. Chaos reigns. Everywhere, and forever.

But, suddenly, a new thing happens. A beginning.

Time as mortals conceive it doesn't exist in the Realm of Chaos, so that moment is just one of many, a grain lost between an ever-changing maze, but still it happens, and it stands there, shining brightly, for an instant or maybe for a hundred years. In that lax of time, the gazes of the Four Great Gods of Chaos are called to it, attracted, for the first time in millennia at the same thing in the same time.

A beginning. But where? Where?

The attention of the Four moves rabidly in search of the answer. Deep in the Plague Lord's putrid domain, they move, beneath the crumbling mansion of great Nurgle himself, where the poxes and the maladies concocted by the Grandfather wash before falling down in the material world.

There. A beginning. A new thing.

It's little, insignificant, but the Gods can see far and they put in account even that, in their divine plans.

Forewarned, they retreat their gazes and return to their eternal brooding and scheming. Only Nurgle's attention lingers for a moment still, the Grandfather taking delight of this new creature's birth. He laughs heartily, already seeing far, but as his brothers, he let the little thing to grow and returns to his workshop.

And so, conflict continues

* * *

The first thing that Gudras looked upon was a greenish-black cascade of oily liquid.

He watched it flow for a moment, then nodded with satisfaction.

It was a magnificent thing.

It was then that his attention caught another peculiar thing.

He existed.

In fact, he had a body. And he was sure that a moment before, he didn't exist at all. How peculiar.

Marveling at the strange thing that was existence, he let his senses flow over his newly-discovered body. It felt strong, tough and slimy.

After that realization, came another. He could move.

He tried.

A finger, somewhere down the slopes of his body, moved. Up up, and then down. Up up and then down. Gudras entertained himself with that simple movement for the following moments. Or maybe for the following years.

Eventually, he got more curious about himself.

Sending impulses down his body, he discovered an arm, then another, a hand, then another, a leg, then another. His fingers, he noticed, were long and gangly, while his toes were pudgy. His stomach, he discovered, protuded morbidly forward, making his body quite rotund. His skin felt leathery and tough.

He didn't remember how it was into the non-existence, but right now, as he moved his newly discovered limbs, he felt a quiet satisfaction fill him.

He moved, slowly at first, then faster, testing his body. He jumped stiffly, then weaved in the air. He felt excitation rush his senses together with the exertion, but he called himself back to calm with a quiet scolding. Calm was good. Calm was the right way to be.

He stopped with a huff.

What next? Ah, his neck!

It was a short thing, really. He could barely feel it between his squat head and broad shoulders.

Gudras moved it tentatively. He felt a pang of sadness at having the cascade of slime move away from his sight, but his curiosity kept him going. To the left, a wall of crumbling bricks. It looked tough. To the right? Another wall, this one with a big hole in the middle.

Gudras was asking himself where it could lead, when he heard a rustle behind him. Slightly surprised, he turned around - a movement made a bit shuffling since it was the first time-.

He found another wall of bricks, with a mound of slime and mud amassed against it. The rustle arrived from it.

Gudras leaned forward, curious.

As he watched, a lump of slime slided down, revealing a big, round, greenish eye. The pupil inside was almost big enough to fill it completely. It moved around, then it stopped on Gudras and thinned in a cat-like fashion.

Gudras heard a croak.

He watched the eye, thoughtful. It was stuck inside the mound? A little voice inside his head told him that was the case.

Should he get it out?

As he contemplated the possibility, he turned to look at his own hand. He closed it, then opened it again. It felt… free.

He decided.

Raising his arms, he sank them into the mound.

"Rot, glorious rot…" He whispered as he began to move it, splashes and spits dabbing him. He stopped. Where had that came from? He felt just like saying it.

He tasted those three words on his serpentine tongue. They felt… right. He would remember them.

Shrugging, he returned to his work.

The slime was compact and solid, but his talons sank easily in it, and he ripped away chunks of it. Little by little, as the floor got stained more and more, the body of the owner of the eye appeared before him.

Gudras ripped away the last piece, that came away with a squelching sound, then stepped back.

The owner of the eye was smaller than him, barely arriving at his stomach. It looked like a fat frog, its slimy, greeny skin covered with ridges and boils.

The frog rotated his only eye, a varty tongue darting out of his big mouth as he stretched his legs. He turned to Gudras.

Gudras watched it back, curious.

Then the frog tried to eat him.

A moment later, the frog was down on the floor, a big bump on his head and a many stars around it.

Gudras lowered his arm, chuckling. He patted the frog.

"I think i'll call you Slimy."

The frog croaked weakly.

Satisfied, Gudras turned to the cascade of slime. To his immense dismay, it was gone.

"Aaaw."

He looked up, from where it had come. There was a sort of grate. He could hear sounds coming from beyond it, steps and a strange, baritone singing.

Gudras felt something inside of him stir at hearing it. He had to reach it. At any cost.

He looked down. A swirling maelstrom of energy met his gaze. No path there.

Leaning back, he turned. Slimy was slowly getting back up, his long tongue rubbing the bump on his head. Gudras looked to the right, where the hole in the wall was. The only path was there, it seemed. Well, so be it.

He patted the frog, eliciting a submissive croak from it.

It made him chuckle. Good thing, it learned fast.

Grabbing it under the armpits, he hauled it out of the slime with a huff.

"We're going on an adventure, you and i. Happy?"

A croak.

"Of course."

Keeping the frog under his arm, Gudras climbed inside the hole. It felt good to move his limbs, and he felt the excitation for the journey making its way through him.

Calm was the way, he remembered to himself. Calm, steady and…

"Rot, glorious rot."

* * *

 _ **Don't ask me. I just write.**_

 _ **It will include Warhammer 40.000 too.**_


	2. Chapter 2

The passage was narrow and grimy, and stank like the greatest sedersi in the world mixed together. Still, Gudras felt at ease climbing through its filth-encrusted depths.

His large feet stomped through the grime, seemingly finding easy lodging for every step. It was almost like wading into a swamp, but it felt like strolling into summer field. A very stinking, summer field.

Gudras alternated his attention between peering into the darkness that laid before him, and the frog into his arms. Slimy croaked weakly under his scratches, trying to wriggle out both from them and from his hold, but his efforts were for naught.

They proceded into this instable tranquillity for a bit.

Eventually, the tunnel ended, and Gudras stepped into a open space.

Waterfalls of black, viscuous liquid made-up the walls of the ample room. The ceiling seemed to reach into infinity, barely visible through a gloomy haze.

Before him, the room seemed to go forward and forward, no visible end in sight.

Curious, Gudras advanced. His naked, pudgy feet made a dry sound upon the tiled floor.

He blinked.

There, in the bottom. There was something. He could swear that there wasn't anything a moment before.

Even more curious, he kept on advancing.

As he did, the object's features cleared.

It was a big table, darkened by damp and eroded by time. A fat humanoid the colour of bile seated at it, its only eye fixed on the mass of parchement laid before him.

He was scribbling on it with a long quill, and, as he got closer, Gudras caught snippets of his grumbling.

"Acne, Laryngitis, Retinoblastoma, Pleurisy, Tinnitus, Pur-char-char, Black Fever, White Fever." He mumbled, the quiver never stopping on scribbling.

Gudras stopped before the table. It was so tall that he managed to peek over its surface only by getting on his tiptoes.

He stood there, unsure of what to do. Sure, the writing guy seemed nice, but he seemed even very busy with very important stuff. He wasn't sure if it was proper to disturb him.

Slimy resolved the matter for him.

Getting impatient, the frog opened his mouth and lashed out with his tongue. The wet appendage stroke the cyclops scribe right at the top of his head, where a large horn jutted out. It remained attached for a moment, before returning down with a smacking sound.

The cyclops, barely wincing, snapped to look at Gudras.

Gudras jolted, very afraid.

"I am so sorry, sir." He said hurriedly. "That was Slimy. Stupid, stupid Slimy!"

To prove his point, he raised the frog over his head, showing him off. Slimy, far from feeling guilt, croaked in defiance.

The cyclops watched at the frog for a moment, face unreadable, before setting down the quiver and straightening himself.

"Well, i am appalled." He said, with a deep, cavernous voice. He sounded mightily outraged. "Youth shouldn't disturb the elderly, isn't, now?"

Gudras clutched Slimy in contrite embarassment. Of course he was right. What a terrible situation.

"I am so sorry, sir." He said. "He escaped from my grasp."

"Well, clumsiness is no excuse, as carelessness is not."

Gudras trembled as the big eye of the cyclops fixed on him.

"Have you something else to add on your defence?"

Gudras thought hard about it. He really hadn't nothing.

"I will make up to you, sir." He said. "I promise. Just ask away what is the payment for your forgiveness."

The table rumbled slightly when the cyclops smacked it with one of his large hands.

"Well, now this is talking like a respectful child." The hardness in his eye seemed to alleviate slightly. "Dear me, i was thanking of you like some disrespectful brat, but your words belies that credence."

Gudras clutched Slimy tighter, ignoring the gros's corak of protest. He felt embarassed by those praises.

"Well, now i have nothing to ask of you, but the promise i will remember and for now that's good enough." The cyclops' eye blinked. "But do tell now, little one. Why do you walk this hall? Don't you know that here is forbidden place?"

"Again, my greatest apologies, sir, but i am new here and i was searching for the fount of the green life."

"The fount? Ah, that's how it is, then."

The cyclops shook his big head.

"You cannot pass, little one. Not now."

He raised a hand to stop Gudras' protest.

"You have to earn your spurs first, you see? None bar knights can see the fount." The eye of the cyclops fixed on Gudras. There was a soft glow in it. "Are you a knight?"

"No… i am not…"

"Then, that's what your due is."

The cyclops waved once and beside the table two doors appeared.

Gudras blinked. They seemed to shift and move like bubbling bile. As he watched, they stopped and defined themselves. One was a single iron slab, a single golden ring hanging from a notch carved in it. The second was polished wood, carved with delicate images of birds.

"These are the places, these are the times." The cyclops said. "Choose now, footman. Your spurs await for you."

Gudras watched him for a moment, before his gaze shifted to the door once again. Unease, fear and burning curiosity fought for dominance inside of him.

He moved before the doors, eyeing them both warily.

Whispers edged along his coscience. Snippets of discussion, far and away, slithered between his thoughts.

He raised a hand toward the iron door.

As he did so, the whispers seemed to raise in intensity while voices failed and fewer remained.

They talked of… stomping of iron-shod feet. Crackling of fire. Roars of monsters. Twisted boughs. Horns over horns.

He stepped back, and the vision retreated.

He was unsure.

He watched the second door. Pure, incorrupted, the carvings' eyes seemed to reflect his own gaze.

He stepped to it and put his hand over it. The voices raised and he understood… bones that grow. The glint of light over a sheated blade. A mask that break. Endless defiance. Despair.

He paused for a moment, before nodding.

"Good luck." The cyclops said, already returning to pick up the quill.

Gudras nodded to him, then to Slimy.

The frog croaked weakly.

"Don't be like that. We'll have fun."

Saying that, Gudras pushed the wooden door and stepped inside.

Darkness stood beyond the threshold and it engulfed him.

Gudras fled through it like a flying bird. Stars and planets passed by him. He saw fires engulf them, some raging strong, others about to gutter out. Colossal beasts seemed to linger just beyond the black shroud of space, enormous, darkened shapes that writhed and twisted like shadows on a great wall.

Gudras felt himself accelerate. The stars elongated in lines of light, the planets disappeared into a chaotic blur of colours.

Feeling Hoyful exhilaration, flowing through him, Gudras moved his gaze from them and forward.

There! Alone in the immense distance of space, a point of lithe light. That was his destination! He could feel it!

As the light grew closer and closer, he clutched Slimy harder. The frog croaked in protest.

The light became great as a building, then as a city, then as a planet.

Just a moment before impacting against it, Gudras had the image of an enormous ship voyaging through space. A crystalline, lithe structure of what seemed like bone made-up the frame of it. Fin-likes strutture and domes of glass dotted the titanic structure. And there, just in the canals of bones that kept everything together, Gudras could see shapes and forms, like fishes in the water, gliding through currents of built reality.

Then, he was against it.

Aquamarine light filled his vision. The speed that was carrying him seemed to wriggle around him like loose strings before compattino again.

Smooth, white walls appeared before his eyes. Scents of martial purity and cleaniness hit him, together with hot, stable air. The costrictions of the material realm fell upon him like a ton of chains, and for a momenth he just stood there, scrunching his nose in distaste, trying to get used to it.

He didn't. But there was little he could do about it.

Ill at ease, he looked around.

He was in what looked like a corridor. There was a closed door at the end, smooth white as everything else.

He walked towards it, but stopped right away.

Someone was coming.

Acting out of instict, he jumped into one of the grates that stood on the ceiling. The incredibly annoying laws of that plane of existence didn't stop him from taking a liquid form and slips between the bars.

There, he waited.

Only after a moment he remembered of putting a hand over Slimy's mouth.

As the frog emitted a muffled croak of protest, the door opened and Gudras heard steps coming close.

"It's here, Farseer?" A stern, male voice said.

As Gudras tried to lean to see better, two figures appeared in his vision.

The first was a warrior in lithe armor. An elongated helmet covered his head, and he was watching at his comrade. This one was a female, her armor a lot more ornated than that of the male. She wore no helmet, letting her long, golden hair flowing down her back.

She clutched a staff in her hand, and she wore a look of concentration.

Gudras didn't need to hear her reply, since he knew that she was a Farseer and she had felt his arrival over the Craftworld.

Clutching Slimy under his arm, he retrated deeper inside the system of the Craftworld, liquefying into a green puddle to pass through tubes and gaps.

He had to earn his spurs to being admitted at the fount's presence, but how was that supposed to happen? What was he supposed to do exactly? He would have to think long and hard about it.


	3. Chapter 3

Something disturbed Farseer Yrithiel. The Warp, the vast sea-dimension of the accursed Daemons, kept on spiralling just at edge of her perceptions.

It was calm, too calm, and that concerned her more than anything.

She breathed slow, pushing her mind through levels of awareness. Her soul soared through the ether, and she found herself sorrounded by the strands of the future.

Like golden locks, the strands covered the sky and everything she could see with her mind's eye.

She tried to pick her way through them, as she had done from the time she had first taken the path of the Seer. She followed each strand with careful attention, pondering, divining, searching.

The possibilities were mind-numbing in their numbers, but still she couldn't find nothing tied to what she felt. She couldn't find what disturbed her.

Expiring, she left her mind descend once again to the simple spiritual plane. The Warp was still there, revolving around her awareness like a sea around reef. She had felt it, she was sure of it. A spike of activity in its eternal waves. It had been small, barely perceptible even for a farseer, like the ripples made by a pilchard, but she had felt it nonetheless. She expected for the movement to continue, to expand, signaling the attempt of a powerful Daemon to enter into the material world. But instead, the waves had returned to their motions, nothing more disturbing them

A mon'keigh could have dispatched the perception as nothing of important but she, as an Eldar, knew best than to disregard anything when it was about the Warp. Something had pushed its way through the boundaries through world, she was sure of it.

Still, she couldn't fathom what or where it had happened, and that both unnerved and frustrated her.

The signs said that it was close to the Craftworld, even inside of it, and she had led squads of warrior aspects to investigate, but…

She interrupted her contemplation with a sigh. Her body, hovering at the center of the Chamber of Meditation, came down slowly, and, as she put her feet down, her grabbed the staff that had hovered in front of her. Her eyes were illuminated by an aquamarine glow when she opened them, the iron determination in them now marred by clouds of doubt.

She glanced at the seer stones that were slowly rotating around her.

For a moment, she thought about letting them there, but then she decided otherwise. A flick of thought sent the stone raising up into the warm air of the chamber, their glowing symbols letting trails of light. They gathered before her head, before falling down.

Yrithiel's eyes followed them as they scattered on the smooth floor. Her eyes moved fast through the configuration they had taken, her mind working to decipher the meaning.

Nothing.

The future was uncertain.

She sighed. With a wave of her hand, the stones rose from the floor and returned to their casing, an elaborated case of wraithbone.

The Farseer didn't stop to watch them slid back into their posts, instead marching out of the room, the staff rythmically beating on the floor.

Outside of the chamber, two Eldars were waiting for her. The first was dressed into a long tunic with green and red decorations. His face was old and worn, and his long hair silvery, but his black eyes were piercing.

The second wore a complete armor of waithbone. The elongated helm provided by amplificators and the long mane of red hair identified her as a Howling Banshee. The golden bands that ornated her armour identified her as a Exarch.

As always, Yrithiel felt a little stab of unease at seeing the armored form of Eler, the exarch, but she made sure of hiding it.

She nodded as they both bowed to her.

"Are the runes uncertain, Farseer?" Caerabar asked respectfully. He was the Chief-warlock of Yrithiel's group.

The way with which he seemed to read her utmost thoughts managed as always to stir both aggravation and reassurance inside of her. She was the Farseer, but the Warlock was a lot older than her and sometimes that made her feel like a tutored child, even if she was obscurely happy of having someone capable of reading her so clearly.

Still, she kept her thoughts to herself.

"Yes, Caerabar." She nodded. "But this doesn't mean that we can leave our guard down. In fact, it's the opposite. Follow me. We'll rally the Guardians once again."

The inspections, both magical and mundane, of the Craftworld had bore no result. In fact, the simple prospect that something from the Warp could have made his way directly inside the Craftworld had been scoffed by the Court of the Young King and many of the Farseers. Still, they were wise and knew that only a fool would let such things to fall unobserved.

Eler and Caerabar didn't say nothing. They just nodded and followed the Farseer out of her private quarters.

As they moved through the quarter of Yrithiel's servitors and comrades, the banshee and the warlock already calling their soldiers to follow them, the Farseer was already projecting her mind around to search for more disturbance.

She bit her lip. Everything she knew told her that it was impossible for the servants of the Ruinos Powers to manifest themselves over the Craftworld of Biel-tan, but despite that her instict kept on nagging on her.

The Warp was calm. Too calm.

Something wasn't right.

Still, if something had to be done, it had to be done quickly. The Court was indulging her requests only under the Farseers' insistences and their patience was sure to run out quickly.

Irritation for the sheer bullheadedness of the commading exarchs of the Craftworld flashed through her mind before she repressed it quickly. Now it wasn't the moment to be critical of her brethren.

"Sister!"

That voice jolted Yrithiel away from her train of thoughts.

They were in one of the great pathway of the Craftworld now, with Eldar coming and going. A little child was running toward her group, behind him a old eldar trying to keep up. The child looked to be barely ten, with hazelnut hair that cut at his shoulders and the same aquamarine-colored eyes that her own.

Deep irritation flashed through the Farseer's mind like a thunderbolt.

She glanced at the Howling Banshee Exarch.

Eler moved forward as fast as lightning and blocked the child with a gentle, but firm grip.

Yrithiel catcher briefly the little child struggle in the exarch's hold, before glaring at the old Eldar, that arrived just in that moment.

She didn't say anything at his hurried excuses. Instead, she turned around, long cape fluttering, and marched off, her group of warlocks and aspect warriors following her.

Irilgen watched his big sister walk away without living him even a word.

He writhed once again in the hands of his caretaker, before surrendering grudgingly.

He barely listened to his old caretaker, Mordrel, as he scolded him for going to disturb the Farseer. He didnt say anything as he brough him back to their house. Instead, he cursed for having failed.

He just wanted to have some words with the big sister of which everyone in family kept talking about. For that reason, he had managed to drag Mordrel to accompanying, with a lie of course, as close as possible to her quarters. He had believed to have been incredibly lucky when she had showed up, and instead…

He put up a pout when Modrel said that his parents would be informed of his behaviour, but still didn't say anything. Like he would care!

Still, he felt immense relief when the door of his room slammed shut, and he was finally alone.

He threw himself over the bed, his mind already racing to concoct another plan to manage to speak with her sister once again. She had catcher him for a moment, he was sure of it, but hadn't stop. Surely, she had so important business that she couldn't. Well, that it meant that he just had to catch her when she was free!

He pumped a fist in the air. Yes! He would make it!

Feeling reenergized, he started to daydream about the group he had seen around her sister. The warlock, he had recognized him, and the exarch! Oh boy, she had even touched him! How cool was that! That armor though! When he was big enough, even him would partecipate to one of the Warrior Paths, and he would become the strongest warrior! Not strong as her sister, though. She was a Farseer! Everybody listened to her, and she could make things explode with her mind! She was the coolest!

He was taken by those thoughts, when a sudden sound attracted his attention.

Frowning, she got up from his bed. What was it?

It arrived from the wall, and it was like… liquid sloshing?

Curious, he made his way to the wall and pushed his ear against it. Yes, it was actually a sound of liquid sloshing. How strange. Maybe there was something broken?

Something wet hit his cheek, and Irilgen winced.

He raised his gaze, and his eyes widened.

There was a grate in the air pipeline, there on the ceiling, and something was dripping from it.

He narrowed his eyes and, trying to see better, and got on his tiptoes.

He could see something moving beyond the grate. What…

Suddenly something dark flopped down from the grate.

Irilgen yelped in surprise and jumped back.

The thing splotched against the floor with a wet sound, forming an ugly little mound of green slime.

"Ewwww." Irilgen said, his hand running to cover his mouth. What even was that thing! It was the nastiest stuff he had ever seen!

As he watched, the mound of stinkiness rose from the floor, like something was pushing from inside. It swelled, and tiny, gangly arms sprouted out of it. A tiny, horned head formed on top of it, and it began to turn around slowly.

Fascinated, Irilgen was getting close when the head turned around and a big eyes stopped on him.

He winced and stopped.

The thing watched him without making a sound.

Slowly, without breaking eye-contact, the child moved towards the cupboard. Once he was close enough, he jumped to it and grabbed the toy-sword that his father had gite him for his eight season.

The little thing opened a mouth to say something, but Irilgen was faster and fell on it with a flurry of blows.

"Take it, you nasty! And that! And that! And that!" He yelled, smashing the toy right on top of the head of the ugly thing.

He smashed and beat, eyes closed, until a big croak resounded into the room.

Irilgen stopped abruptly.

The thing had put a big frog before himself, and the poor thing had taken the brunt of his assault. His eyes turned around and it looked ready to plop down.

"That's unfair!" Irilgen yelled in outrage.

The green thing watched him.

"You attacked me." He just said. There wasn't offence in his words. Only aknowledgement.

Irilgen winced.

"Well, you scared me!" He defended.

The green thing looked at him with a mix of thoughtfullness and skepticism.

"Wimp." It said with finality, pointing a long finger against him.

Irilgen was so shocked that for a moment he didn't find the words.

"I am not a wimp!" He protested.

"You were scared."

"W-well, i am not, not anymore!"

The green thing watched him in silence. He didn't look very convinced.

"I am Gudras." He said eventually.

Irilgen was unsure of what to do. He had no idea of what this thing was, but still, he didn't look too bad, smell aside. And, heck, he was no wimp! He could take care of himself!

"I am Irilgen!" He said proudly. "You better watch out with me. My sister is a Farseer!"

"Oh, really?"

"Yes!"

"Tell me about her."

"Well…"

It looked like the beginning of a very strange friendship.


	4. Chapter 4

"Alright, now you'll talk."

Gudras didn't blink when the wraithbone lamp shone its light right on his face. Slimy, instead, croaked in protest.

Gudras watched quizzically the child. Irilgen was holding the lamp in a hand, while in the other he clutched his toy-sword threateningly. His expression was one of grim inquisitiviness and fierce combativiness. After the first surprise, he was ready to take on every challenge.

"What are you?" He barked. "Start talking!"

Gudras tilted his head by a side.

"I am Gudras."

"Yeah, i get it. But i haven't asked who are you, but what are you." Irilgen pointed out.

Gudras seemed to think on the question for a bit. When he talked, he did it slowly.

"I am an aspect of Nurgle." He said. "An emanation that the Grandfather has unleashed upon the galaxy to be unbounded by the burden of divinity and return to the old times. You can even say that i am Nurgle, yes, just another, smaller version of him."

Just after saying those words, surprise took him. And that where it had came out?

He made a mental shrug. Meh, it felt right enough, he supposed.

Irilgen was watching him with suspicion. He had no idea what Gudras' words meant, not the slightest clue, but he didn't want to appear ignorant. He had a family honor to maintain.

"This Nurgle you are talking about…" He said, booping him with his sword. "Is he a bad guy?" He had to make sure of that at least.

Gudras opened his mouth, then stopped, thoughtful. Was Nurgle a bad guy? Was he a bad guy? Well, he brought delicious plagues to everyone and loved every and each creature of the universe equally. So…

"No." He shock his head. "I am a good guy."

Of course he was.

Irilgen didn't look very convinced.

"And what are you doing here, mh?" He apressed. "Didn't you know that this is Eldar territory?"

Gudras exchanged a glance with Slimy.

"Well…" He looked a bit sheepish.

"Well?" Irilgen bopped him on the stomach with his sword.

"I…" Gudras looked at his shuffling feet. "I think that i am lost."

Irilgen blinked.

"You're… lost?" He repeated.

Gudras nodded.

"I was on an errand for my father and, well… i lost my way." Gudras' form slumped slightly.

"Oh."

The toy-sword hang low as Irilgen rubbed the back of his head. That changed everything! He was a lost kid! Even if he looked like a ugly frog, with a true frog between his hands. Still, he was so little! What even he could do?

He felt bad for having threatened him like that.

They remained both silent for a moment, atmosphere hanging thick with unease for Irilgen while Gudras seemed taken by his own thoughts.

Thankfully, Slimy decided to croak in that moment, and Gudras shook himself from his daze.

"You said that your sister is a Farseer?" He asked.

Irilgen nodded with a bit of hesitation.

A big smile cracked the large face of Gudras open.

"Then, maybe she will know where i can find what i seek!"

"I.. don't know." Irilgen said slowly. "She has very important stuff to do…"

Gudras took an air of calm solemnity.

"Well, then, i will find her and then i will talk to her when she isn't busy, is that ok?" He said, with all seriousness.

Irilgen eyed him suspiciously. "Only that?"

"Only that."

"Is that a promise?"

"It's a promise."

Irilgen nodded, a smile breaking out over his face.

"Then, i'll come with you!" He declared.

"Really?"

"Yes! I want to talk with my sister too!" He said excitadedly. "And then…" He puffed up his chest proudly. "If you're lost, i will help you to find your way back. That's what a true Eldar warrior would do!" He wanted to apologize for his behaviour too, but that he didn't say it. Not that there was need after all.

"You're very brave." Gudras said solemnly.

Irilgen had to repress a snicker while pink tinted his cheeks.

"Let's go!" He declared, the enthusiasm of adventure blasting away the rest of his doubts.

Of informing his caretaker not a chance. He would stop him with another of his fairytales about prudence and whatnot, and then he was no wimp that needed help to deal with a little thing like that. So, the child took his backpack, stuffed Gudras in it and sneaked out of the house.

The pathways of the Craftworld were elegant and sleek, and Irilgen dashed through the sparse crowd, attracting glances left and right. Still, enthusiasm pumped into his chest and he didn't care.

"Still." He said while running. "I am not very sure where my sister could be right now."

He scolded himself for that. He had to remember it sooner, what a dummy!

"Don't worry." Said Gudras' placid voice from his backpack. "I can perceive her position."

Irilgen almost fell down.

"Y-you can?"

"Yes."

Irilgen felt a sense of marvel.

"What even are you?" He asked.

"I told you. I am Gudras."

"That's not actually an answer."

"You fear my powers? Wimp."

"I-i am not a wimp, i told you! A-and i don't fear anything!"

"Good. Then run. We're on the right path."

"I fly!"

The strange duo disappeared into the crode streets of the Craftworld city.

Yrithiel lowered her staff, her delicate features twisting into a frown.

Something wasn't right.

She turned around, meeting Caerabar's gaze. The warlock's concern mirrored her own.

He could feel, like her, the twisting of the strands of fate. They were churning, curling, taking new shapes.

Yrithiel's gaze snapped at the crowd before her. She and her retinue were inspecting the streets in search of spiritual abnormalities. A line of Guardians in the colors of Biel-tan separated her from the Eldars going about their businesses.

The Farseer' eyes narrowed. The strands of fate churned around her, a sea of golden locks in movement.

Her gaze moved to an Eldar walking between the crowd while talking with a friend. It was unremarkale, really, just another citizen going about his day in the Craftworld.

The strands twirled, then gathered, then returned to their places once again.

Yrithiel increased her concentration. No, weren't the fates to change. It was her own ability to predict them. It was like… like…

The Edar she was looking made a gesture in the middle of the conversation. A normal movement to emphasize his words.

… like, someone was interfering with it.

Yrithiel's eyes snapped wide open, realization flashing through them.

"On your guards!" She yelled while raising a hand, a nimbus of power blooming over her fingers.

The projectile, small enough to almost being invisible, crashed against her kine-barrier, shattering in fragments.

Still, she had seen and caught only one. Other three shattered against her wards and those of her chief-warlock, while others sank into the necks and through the armors of the Guardians all around her.

The world exploded into action.

Eler dashed forward, her sword a blur of light. While almost all the Guardians fell without a sound, dark figures bounded out of the crowd, wicked blades flashing in their outstretched hands.

The exarch met them in a clash of blades that resonated through the entire street.

At the same time, a psychic message echoed like a thunderbolt through the entirety of the Craftworld.

"Mon'keigh spaceships have been sighted. Prepare for battle."

Yrithiel exchanged a rapid glance of understanding with Caerabar. That attack wasn't a coincidence.

It lasted for a brief moment, then the Farseer had to focus her attention on the figure dashing toward her.

She raised and hand and let loose her attack. A blast of lightening exploded from her palm, darting forward in burning tongues. Her assailant dodged it with superhuman speed, before cutting short the distance between them with a lunge. Yrithiel gritted her teeth when the blade smashed against her kine-shield, psychic whispers attacking her mind at the same time. It felt like a licks of black water sloshing against her skull.

"Dark Eldars." She noted mentally.

And right now, the Craftworld was orbiting around a supernova, using the death throes of the star to recharge its sails.

No, it wasn't a coincidence at all.

From aboard the gargantuan Emperor's Wrath, Lord-General Astorius watched with utter contempt the image displayed on the great monitor of his bridge. The Craftworld of Biel-tan, an offence to the Imperium and the Emperor itself, hovered into space like some sort of bloated fish.

Astorius registered with barely contained scorn the elongated form of the enormous ship, the fins protuding from it, the domes and its delicate radiance.

It was an offence. And it had to be eliminated, the space purified by its filthy presence.

"All ships in position and ready." His second-in-command said, a solemn look on his face.

Astorius nodded. A sense of grim satisfaction already lessened his disgust while he leaned toward the trasmitter.

"Soldiers of the Imperium!" He declared. "It's time to put an end to these savages' vile assaults over our beloved worlds! To all the forces under my command, strike with the Emperor's fury itself! Destroy the Craftworld of Biel-tan! Attack!"


	5. Chapter 5

Irilgen stumbled, his run coming to an abrupt stop.

"What's happening?" Gudras' voice calmly asked from inside his backpack.

The Eldar child looked around, a hand rising to his temple. He wore a perplexed look.

"For a moment, i thought i heard…"

He hesitated for a moment, then shook his head.

"Never mind. It was probably nothing."

The strange duo, trio if Slimy was considered, wa making its way through a more isolated section of the Craftworld. Great, sleek buildings of wraithbone rose everywhere to great heights, leaving only a fissure of the artificial sky to be seen between them. Filaments of the pearly substance sigzaged into the sky and from every angle, forming delicate formations as fine as cobwebs and enormous structure as large as bridges.

Looking at those from where he was, Irilgen had to admit to feel a bit small.

He watched the alley before him. It was a tight passage between two buildings, a dense undergrowth of wraithbone crisscrossing all its extension. It had a very clean vibe to it, almost sterile in its being completely devoid of shadows. The luminescence of the substance projected strange lights over the walls.

Irilgen could see something flowing inside of that ghostly canopy and he had all the impression of hearing whispers caressing his mind.

He swallowed. He couldn't hear the sound of the city anymore.

"Are you sure that this is the right way?" He asked.

"Not only the right way, but the swiftest way." Was Gudras' calm answer. "Are you scared?"

Irilgen felt his pride bristle at that insinuation.

"Of course not! I am an Eldar warrior! I don't fear anything!" He declared proudly.

"Very admirable."

Irilgen turned to glare at his backpack.

"Was that sarcastic?"

A croak was all the answer that he got.

Irilgen huffed and stomped forward.

The deserted section of the Craftworld welcomed him with a silence that seemed as thick as a solid barrier. After a while, even the whispers stopped.

Irilgen wanted to be brave, really. He really really wanted. But the sensation of being watched by one thousand different eyes, the realization of being very alone and very unarmed, well, they gnawed at him, making him feel like jelly put out and waiting to be picked up by a bird.

He passed a hand over his forehead, feeling it very sweaty.

But he pressed on nonetheless, his wavering pride and desire of seeing her sister still strong enough to push his feet forward.

Obviously, he never noticed the Dark Eldars assassins phasing out of invibility and falling over him with sheated blades. Nor, again, the giant rotting roots that eruptedout of his backpack and swatted both of the would-be assailants out of the air like two annoying pests. It helped that all the action happened in perfect silence, paradoxically, even when the two Dark Eldars were smashed against the walls, but it helped too that he was completely focused on the road ahead.

"Gudras?" The child called after a while. He wouldn't ever admit it, but he really wanted to feel a voice. That silence made his skin crawl.

"Yes?" Was the patient answer. The roots disappeared inside the backpack as fast and silently as they had arrived.

"Do your father send you often on errands?"

"No, this is actually the first time."

"Wow, you must be emotionated."

"A bit."

"A bit? But, if your father send you alone, it means that he has faith in you!"

"Oh, that's true. I didn't think about it."

"Right? I envy you though."

"Why?"

"I still never get to do anything alone. I have always Modrel following me. Modrel is my caretaker by the way. He never lets me do anything. I don't ever know what there is out of the Craftworld!"

"Is that so? You think that he's wrong?"

"Of course! I can take care of myself! In fact, i am doing this alone, whether he likes it or not!"

"Mh-mh. Ah, so this is your first time going alone outside too."

"Yes!"

"And you like it?"

"Yes!"

"You're very brave."

Irilgen giggled. Talking with Gudras was making him forget about the empty road and how alone they were. Instead, enthusiasm of adventure was taking the reins.

Of course, he never noticed the loose string of Dark Eldars assassins striking out of thin air. Nor the rotten roots that swiftly sent them all tumbling around.

"Talk me of your caretaker, is he a relative?"

"Mh? Oh, yes… i think. Something like uncle something-something to my father. He's terrible sometimes, but he tells good stories!"

"Oh? Do tell. Ah, by the way, we have to turn now."

"Wha…? I thought that you said that this was the right way."

"I changed my mind. You sister kept moving around."

"Well, she's so very busy after all."

"I am sure that she is."

Yrithiel dodged a serrated blade, before retaliating with a burst of psychic power. The Dark Eldar wore an ecstatic expression even while the lightning enveloped him. The assassin writhed and spasmed uncontrollably, before being cut down by Yrithiel's spear.

As the battered corpse fell down, the Farseer clanked her weapon down. Her eyes blazing with power, she swiped the battlefield with her gaze.

Caerabar had already cut down his assailants, while Eler was still locked in combat with what she presumed was the chief of the Dark Eldar. Their blades moved so fast that even with her psychically enhanced senses, Yrithiel could barely follow them.

Suddenly, Eler's blade pierced her enemy's defences. There wasn't error from the Dark Eldar. It was only that the Exarch was too good for him to defeat. There was barely a whisper in the air, and the head of the Dark one flew into the air, his body following short.

Yrithiel just nodded once, then turned to survey the scene around her.

The battle had been vicious, but short, and it hadn't spilled in the sorroundings. The Biel-tan, first than citizen, were warriors, and all the by-standers stood by a side, or already started to run for their assigned places in case of an emergency. Those armed, instead, had taken potshots. Between them, the blade of the Exarch and the combined powers of the warlock and the Farseer, the ambushers had been dealt with swiftly and brutally.

Yrithiel couldn't stop herself from laying a contemptous glance at the nine corpses now strewn over the road. Twisted, blackened forms, showing off even more twisted souls.

She diverted her attention rapidly. The Fallen didn't deserve even to be watched upon.

"Let's move." She said as her two bodyguards reached her.

There wasn't need for words nor room for panic or doubt. They were burdens and they were treated as such. Only focused determination and discipline found room in the trio's minds.

As they marched towards the closest guard post, Yrithiel was already focusing her mind to contact her fellow Farseers, Caerabar's psychically helping her.

The exchange was rapid and to the point.

A whole fleet of Mon'keigh had appeared out of the Warp and was already converging against the Craftworld. There were thousands of ships, assault barges and traports alike, comprising a Space Marine Battle-Barge and its complements. At a rough estimation, the numbers of the attackers could be counted into the order of millions.

The Court of the Young King had elected an Autarch in the person of Argvar of the Unerring Blade and given the order of full mobilization of all the forces presently available. The fleet, already in defensive formation around the Craftworld to protect against such cases, was already in course of intercept. More ships were being manned and sent to join it, but it was more than foreseeable than an assault over the Craftworld would happen. As such, all the citizen had to take weapons and prepare for an invasion. The most likely points that the Mon-keigh would use for landing had been already identified and heavily fortified. All the Farseers had to immediately return to the Infinity Circuit and put themselves to disposition. With no exception. All the orders had the agreement and validation of the Council of Farseers.

Yrithiel gritted her teeth. She loathed the idea of hiding into the rear while the despicable Mon'keigh tried to raze her home.

Repressing those thought, she sent her own message regarding the Dark Eldars presence.

The answer had the coldness of finality. Other three Farseers had been targeted and, even if all three had escaped assassination, that was the main reason for the order of going to a more protected location. Reinforcements were already en route to escort the Farseer back to the Court.

For a moment, Yrithiel fought with herself, her insinct to fight battling her disciplinated side. Eventually, this latter proved victorious though and she grimly resigned herself to obey. She noticed the softening of Caerebar's expression, but didn't say anything in regard to it.

Meanwhile, outside the Craftworld, the battle began in earnest.

Graceful Eldar ships, grouped into fluid formations, slided forward into space, their sleek shapes and delicate colours making them seem like ethereal creatures of the Empyrean.

On contrast, the Imperium fleet was composed of bulky, massive vessels that left nothing to appearance and all to armor and firepower. Their biggest ships were flying basilicas, spiers, arches and pinnacles jutting out of their enormous frame.

As the two fleets closed upon each other, cannons and spears, torpedo and bombs were launched forward. Space was illuminated by silent explosions of plasma and fire.

The Eldar vessels, faster and more sophisticated, moved as living beings, the thoughts of their pilots giving them as much adaptability and nimbleness as an Exarch on the field of battle. They swirled and dashed, sending the crude weapons of the Mon'keigh to miss their mark and explode harmlessly into the void. Their halo-fields disturted their positions and frames, making them even harder to attack.

Instead, the ships of the Imperium were hit by blow after blow, each cannon barrage and torpedo finding its mark over kilometres thick plating and massive void shields. Ships were wounded and torn apart, their machine spirits crying their pain into their binary language moments before their circuits exploded into bits. And still, the forces of the Imperium had the power of faith beyond them and they kept their attack with a frenzied pace. Guns and cannons flared, more torpedo were launched and massive ships dashed forward to engage the Eldar in deathly duels.

Against such a furious barrage, not even all the maneveurability of the Eldar could grant untouchability, and the Xenos earned their first losses, their ships sputtering, losing control or exploding under the avalanche of ordnance of the human fury.

Still, the battle had barely began, and none of the two sides was ready to quit.

Modrel, old caretaker of the Lanhith family, felt a mix of irritation and grumpiness as he picked up his personal Shuriken catapult. It was an old, old weapon, dust falling from it as he raised it from the bundle in which he had kept it.

Modrel's worn face was twisted into a deep frown as he observed the weapon. He had really hoped of being able to die without having to use it anymore, but…! Mon'keigh attacking the Craftworld directly? Ah! Surely they had a death wish! Pah. He would have made sure of granting as much as they wanted of them.

The old flame burning in his breast, that once had him almost lost to the Way of the Exarch, was a smoldering ember now, but still hot enough to burn flesh.

Still, he remembered to himself, he had a charge to take care of. Irilgen, that little scoundrel. The thought of the lively child brought a smile to his wooden features. Ah, protecting the young. That was a most worthy way to pursue. That little brat would have made a fine soldier one day, he was sure of it.

His pleased train of thought was interrupted by a speck of doubt.

He raised an eyebrow. He couldn't clearly understand where it came from. How strange. He had always good to decipher what his instict told to him.

He shrugged. Bah. They were under attack after all.

Now, enough losing time.

Barely a couple of heartbeats had passed in real life as he shook himself from the contemplation of the weapon and his thoughts. A residue of his passed life as soldier, but not an unwanted one. Being able to slip into a battle meditation at will was always useful.

He glanced at the second bundle into the chest, but didn't lean to pick it up. The rifle was enough for him.

Throwing the weapon over his shoulder, the caretaker exited from the storage room. As he marched through the various rooms of the house, his eyes glanced around, his mind rapidly making sure that everything was in order. When the Mon'keigh will be defeated, he wanted to make sure of being able to see if something had gone amiss.

Lastly, he went to the room of the child.

He had left him alone for a bit, leaving him to stew over what he had done. He hadn't felt that was right to scold him more. After all, he could understand Irilgen's frustration at being unable to talk with her sister. Poor kid. If only he could make him understand what taking the path of the Farseer actually implied for Yrithiel…

That doubt was still there, itching.

Modrel pushed it back with a mental huff.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"Kid, we must go to…"

He stopped.

The room was empty.

Modrel didn't panic, only surprise and agitation rushed through him, before being squashed by cold calm. As he registered Irilgen's absence, his old soldier insticts kicked in.

He looked around, searching for clues for what or where he had gone.

No backpack into the closet nor signs of burglary. The first conclusion was that he had gone outside of his own.

Modrel's temper flared. He had had actually the guts of trying to get close to his sister so soon? Little, impertinent…

He pushed back his anger in favour of more cool-headed thoughts. He had to find him. Fast.

Dashing out of the room, he marched back and returned to the storage. He didn't even stopped to unfold the bundle he had first left behind. Instead, he grabbed hold of the weapon inside and unsheated it out with a swift motion.

Then, he was out. He knew only where Irilgen could have gone: to her sister. She had to find her. Even if he wasn't with her, she could find him fast with her psysic powers. That that would mean to admit of having failed in his duties as caretaker meant nothing.

Feeling a shiver running through his back, Irilgen stumbled, almost ending on his face.

"What's the matter?" Gudras asked, mildly alarmed.

"No, it's just…" Irilgen looked down the street he was running through. "For a moment, i thought…" His attention was picked by a distant sound. Corious, he perked up his long ears. It was… steps?

"Somebody is following us."

As he said it, Irilgen felt horror struck him. If they took him now, he wouldn't see his sister! And… and Modrel would scold him!

"Aye." Gudras agreed. "It's a bit now."

"Wha…? You mean that you knew it?"

"I noticed only a minute ago. I didn't think they were following us."

A lie, obviously. But Irilgen didn't know that.

"W-what do we do?"

"This way."

Irilgen obeyed out of instict. Swirling to the left, he dashed through a branching path. Tendrils of Wraithbone crowded it and Irilgen had to duck and weave to pass between them.

"Where are we going?" He yelled as he tried his best to not smack against it while keeping up his speed.

"An alternate path."

"You sure?"

"Sure enough."

"What do you mean with… uwaaah!"

Irilgen's words were cut off by the ground suddenly disappearing under his feet.

With a yelp, the child plunged down into a mass of wraithbone tendrils. They gave way under his weight and for some, terrifying moments he fell down like a stone. Then, the tendrils began to become thicker and thicker, slowing his descent before giving out. The precipice became a steep descent and he found himself sliding down.

Eventually, he came to mercifully slow stop as the slide stopped into an open space. During the rapid descent, he had pressed close his eyes with both hands and even now he didn't take them away.

"D-did we die?" He stuttered, feeling like he could bowl over and heave everything he had eaten since the moment he was born.

"Let me control… no, we're alive."

Trembling, Irilgen slowly lowered his hands. Holy shit. They were actually alive! He collapsed over the mound of broken wraithbone with a giant sigh of relief.

There was a faint rustle, before Gudras appeared into his vision. The strange creature looked remarkably untouched by all the journey. He held a very dazed-looking Slimy under his arm.

"Scared?" He asked.

Irilgen was so shaken up that he didn't even manage to get his usual freckles up.

Instead, he snickered.

"A bit." He hesitated. "It's wrong?"

Gudras shook his head, the shadow of a smile over his broad face. "Not at all."

Turning around, he glanced before him.

Feeling a little better, Irilgen got up and did the same.

They had ended in little room, high walls of wraithbone making up the walls while all the tendrils he had broken during his descent made up the floor. Before them, the wall opened up into a little entrance.

"Where are we?" Irilgen asked, raising his head. He saw light coming from above, but he couldn't make out the point from which he had fallen from. He felt shivers. He had fallen from so far!

"In the hiding hole of a scoundrel." Gudras replied.

Putting down Slimy, he began to move around, his gaze scanning every centimeter of the room.

"What do you…"

Irilgen's question was cut short by Slimy jumping in his arms. Frog and Eldar watched each other for a second.

"Eeeeeew!" Irilgen tried to put the frog as much away from his face as possible. Slimy croaked, totally unimpressed.

"W-what do you mean?" The child asked. By Asuryan, that thing stank!

"I mean…" Gudras raised a hand, a sly expression over his face. "This!" With a swift motion, he sank his hand into the wraithbone of the floor.

There was a rustle, and Irilgen had all the impression of hearing a muffled sound, before Gudras yanked something out of the wraithbone.

And that something was a little creature.

Irilgen blinked.

The strangest creature he had ever seen.

Even smaller than Gudras himself, it had a lithe, graceful humanoid form. Its skin had the same color of gold and seemed made of that liquid substance. Tendrils of silver protuded from its head , forming a sort of long mane of hair. Two pools of silver also made up its eyes, now cloudy like a stormy sky as Gudras held the little creature by its scruff.

"Let me go!" The little creature protested with a thin voice. It writhed like a caught butterfly in its attempt of getting away.

"W-what is that?" Those words came out of Irilgen's mouth before he could get a hold of them.

"A scoundrel and a copycat." Gudras said. There was a deep sort of satisfaction while he held that little creature like an unrepentant child. "Isn't that right, Slaanesh?"


End file.
